Return of the Crimson Guard

‘Where do we rally?’

What? Rally? He searched the grounds with his swimming vision. Knots of men and women were recoiling — too many Avowed, too closely concentrated. Ye gods, forty of them! Who could stop such a formation? They had nothing left. All that remained was to hunker down, hope to resist for the best terms. He tried to shake his head — the spinning! It would not stop. ‘The redoubt! Rally to the redoubt. We'll make our stand there.’

‘Aye,’ she shouted, still holding his head. ‘I will spread the word.‘ Aside, she ordered: ‘Take him south.’ Arms grasped him, urged him on. He pushed at them — leave me alone, damn you He recognized one of the men, Captain Moss, and he relaxed. He'd lost a gauntlet, wiped at his cold head. The hand came away blood-smeared. He stared at it, surprised. When had that happened? That punch, fool! It shattered your helmet!

He and his escort staggered, fumbling, southward, across the burnt black field littered in bodies. Ullen knew he'd taken a serious head-wound when he saw walking past them out of the gloom a figure from his youth — the unmistakable broad, armoured silhouette of Greymane. His guard pulled their weapons, arranged themselves around him. He raised his hand, ‘It's all right! I know him. Greymane!’ he called. The man swerved their way. ‘Greymane!’

Closing, he halted, breathing hard. His eyes appeared preter-naturally bright within the confines of his full- helm. They narrowed on Ullen. ‘You know me?’

‘Ullen Khadeve. I was with Choss long ago.’

‘Ah.’ The man glanced down. ‘I heard. I'm sorry.’

‘So am I — what are you doing here?’

The helm turned aside, he gestured north. ‘I'm here for Skinner.’

That statement from any other man or woman would've made Ullen laugh. He shook his head, dizzying himself. ‘There's too many Avowed. They'll cut you down.’

The hands in their iron gauntlets tightened into fists that almost shook. A curse sounded from within the helm. ‘Yes — you're right… for now.’ A chuckle of self-mockery. ‘So much for simple-minded delusions of satisfaction demanded on the field of battle, hey?’

‘Come with me. We're headed to that hillock, our last strongpoint. He'll be headed there next.’ Ullen pressed a hand to his searing brow. Had the man shattered his skull? ‘But I warn you — I may ask for terms. If the men agree, I'll not have you break them.’

A nod. ‘I understand.’

This way.’

But the armoured giant did not move; he was staring off to the north.

‘What is it?’

‘Something… something's coming. I'm sensitive to the Warrens. I can feel a damn huge disturbance… Coming very fast! Get down!’

The man stepped up before them, drew his blade — a slim longsword that looked comical in his huge hand. Ullen's guards ranged themselves behind him, Captain Moss included.

Ullen knew that through the darkness he could not see half of what was occurring but what little he did see terrified him. The air up the slope to the north began to ripple as if heated. Flashes like those of stars flickering permeated it. Before it, Skinner's phalanx paused, the tall standard hanging limp in the still night air. The ground suddenly shook as if hammered. An earthquake? The flickering coalesced into a dark-blue aurora that made him squint, shading his eyes and turning his head. Out of this light burst a hurtling wedge, striking the slope with a booming thunder that echoed from all the hills. Ullen had one glimpse of a massive column of riders, swords raised, mouths open in soundless yells, before that wedge slammed into Skinner's phalanx.

The solid ranks of Guardsmen melted before the onslaught like a stand of sticks before an avalanche. They disappeared beneath the crush of massed hooves. The standard snapped, mowed down. While Ullen watched, stunned, astounded, more came, rank after rank passing, trampling the same ground where before a solid formation had once stood. Its front rank curved away to the west and the column rode on, horses lathered, riders yelling their war cries. Wickans, Ullen saw as they swung by. Come through Warren!

After they passed, the deafening roar of their hooves diminishing, only dust swirled over the furrowed and churned ground of the slope. One rider closed upon them, reining up: an old man, his one good eye wide, the other a white, milky orb. A death-grin seemed frozen on his face. ‘That should put an end to your pogrom against us, eh, Malazan!’ he yelled with a crazed laugh.

‘You obliterated them,’ Ullen answered, his voice faint with shock.

The Wickan pointed a bloodied scimitar, his horse rearing to be off. ‘Witness! Give witness, Malazan!’ And he rode off, shouting a great ululating war cry.

Ullen watched the man disappear from sight. ‘Yes… I shall.’

Yet incredibly, unbelievably, shapes now stirred among the trampled and punished ground. Here and there Guardsmen stood, weaving, shaking themselves, straightening. The sight chilled Ullen's flesh and he stared, utterly appalled. Great Gods! Will nothing stop these Avowed? They are relentless. Like the Imass.

Greymane turned to him, wry humour in his eyes. ‘As you said, Ullen. They're too many. But the odds have levelled somewhat, I think. Now is my chance.’ Before Ullen could object the man ran down to the churned slope. If Ullen had had a helmet he'd have thrown it to the ground in frustration. ‘Dammit!’ He turned to his guard. ‘We have to follow him. We can't let him go alone.’

His guards, a mixed body of seven Malazan and Talian infantry, eyed one another, clearly unsure. ‘Our orders…’ one began.

‘Your orders are to follow me,’ Ullen said. Clenching his jaws, this one bowed his curt concurrence. Ullen turned to Moss, who nodded then lifted his chin to the field. ‘And we're not alone…’

Ranks of Imperial infantry were advancing from all around, small units pulling together from every direction. ‘Come!’ Supported by Moss, Ullen limped after Greymane.

The field was a charnel-house of trampled broken bodies. Stunned survivors staggered, blood-bespattered, ignoring them as they passed. All fighting, as far as Ullen could tell, seemed to have been snuffed by this cataclysmic charge. Sadly, a number of his own infantry seemed to have been caught in the charge as well. Ahead through the night, however, two swords clashed, ringing in the silence following the prolonged detonation of that charge. Ullen searched the dusty night for the combat. The grunts, blows and ringing of iron drew them on. They came to the wreckage of a train of Imperial supply wagons. Ullen glimpsed the duel as a blow from one threw the other backwards into a burning wagon, knocking it sideways, its wheels gouging the dirt. Greymane. The man was battered, helm gone, face a mass of blood. Bands of iron armour had been hacked away leaving hanging leather strapping. Skinner loomed forward into the light. A ponderous two-handed downward swing from him was dodged by the renegade to crash into the wagon's siding and bed, breaking it in two in a terrific explosion that sent up clouds of obscuring smoke and ash. Greymane answered but his blade skittered from the Avowed's unearthly glittering armour. They clashed again, grunting their effort in blows that would fell trees. A swiping riposte was met by Greymane's slimmer blade which burst like a sharper, shattering beneath the strain. But instead of flinching away the ex-Fist closed, grappling, and the two struggled from view. Ullen dodged through overturned wagons, butchered horses and burning spilt materiel in a frantic effort to catch sight of them again. Moss and the guards ran with him.

This was lunacy! Here he was with a broken right arm and a probable fractured skull searching for a nightmare out of the old wars of continental subjugation — and the worst of those! A champion that, should Greymane fail, could not be matched by anyone alive today; what could he possibly do? Ullen honestly did not know.

He glimpsed them, wrestling, crashing into wagons, rolling amid the wreckage, trading blows that echoed through the night. Greymane arose bent behind Skinner, a grip up under his chin, straining, his face writhing with effort. Yet, incredibly, the Avowed commander straightened beneath him, raising the man clear off the ground to heave him, armour and all, off into the night. A crash and clattering of iron from stones revealed a gully or slope nearby.

Skinner adjusted his long mail shirt, rolled one shoulder, grunting. He bent to pick up his helm and drew it on again to walk off towards the field. Ullen was torn — dare he challenge him? But what of Greymane? The man was